Unstoppable
Page 16
Dammit.
I head back out to the truck and pick up my phone again, listening to the message on my voicemail.
“Ryland, my man, this vacation of yours is getting a little too long.” He sounds the same as ever, smooth and cool, that ruthless edge to every word. “I need you back in town for a job, and you know I don’t like waiting. Call me.”
I feel chills. He doesn’t know where I am, he couldn’t. I was very careful never to let a word slip about my background or where I grew up. No news of Emerson or Brit, nothing. The only person that could lead right back here to Beachwood Bay is my mom, and she’s miles from anywhere. A different world.
No, I’m safe here. That life is behind me, I swore the night I left Vegas. The dirty work I did for Driskell, the fighting and the girls and the guns. It was rotten to the core, dirty money, and dirtier souls, a pit of vipers.
A place without hope.
Now, I have something to hold onto. A future to build that’s all my own. I look around at the wreckage of the old house and feel a sense of pride at the progress. I’m almost done clearing away the broken-down roof and rotted walls. Next, I’ll strip everything back and fortify the foundation, building roots that will see it through the next dozen storms.
It’s not much compared to a place like that house Tegan is living in, but it’s mine. And soon, it’ll be a home for me, my chance to start fresh. To reclaim my family, and finally build a life I can be proud of.
If Driskell doesn’t find you first…
10.
TEGAN
Two strikes is all I’m allowed. Two amazing, reckless, impulsive kisses. I may have lost my mind twice now, but it won’t happen again. It can’t.
Because if I fall again, I know it’s game over. And dammit, I’m stronger than that.
“You’re going to be mine, princess. I’m going to learn that body by heart.”
Ryland’s words haunt me for the rest of the week. Whenever I find myself in a quiet moment, I see it all over again. That look of certainty in his eyes as he leaned in; the slow flip my stomach spun as his mouth brushed against my ear.
“Next time, I promise, you’re going to be the one kissing me, begging me. Next time, I’m going to show you just what it is you’ve been missing all these years.”
Promises, promises…
I put the guitar down with a groan. I’ve been sitting out on the deck all morning trying to write, but the only songs in my mind are soft and restless, full of unfulfilled desire. When I hear a melody, it’s Ryland’s face that fills my mind; when lyrics come, they’re just the words I wish I could say to him.
Take me. Unravel me.
I’m yours.
I flip through my notebook, hoping for inspiration that doesn’t involve panting over memories of our kiss. Ever since Dex mentioned the song-writing contest, the idea has stuck in the back of my mind, refusing to die away no matter how many times I tell myself it’s a crazy, impossible goal. I’ve barely been writing for a few months; some professionals go years before they ever place a song with an artist, let alone a major band like The Reckless. Just the thought of showing someone my music makes me feel ill, but still somehow, I wish I could do it. Take all the lyrics and melodies rattling around in my head and share them with someone, anyone.
Let them see the very heart of me.
I swallow back a brief pang of regret and get to my feet. It’s nearly lunch time, so I shower off the saltwater from my morning swim and change into a simple summer dress. I pull my hair up in a ponytail, grab my purse and set off on my bicycle towards town. After that first disastrous trip back, I took it to the gas station and pumped up the tires. With some oil on the chain, it’s a hundred times easier to pedal now, and I cruise the road at an easy glide with the breeze on my bare shoulders and my skirt fluttering around my bare legs.
I have a routine now, a simple order to my days. Writing songs, walking the beaches, lunch at the old diner in town. The first time I passed the auto shop on my way home again, I saw Ryland working on some old truck inside. He waved as I rode by, and I nearly drove right into a ditch trying to decide if I was going to wave back.
The next day, I thought it was only friendly to drop by and say hello, and to see how he was getting on working on Dolly. Then, it didn’t seem right to go without bringing something too, so I had the waitress pack me up a cold soda before I stopped in. The look of surprise on Ryland’s face when I offered it to him was worth it.
At this rate, I’ll be bringing a full picnic by the time the week’s out.
I know, I’m playing with fire, but I tell myself it’s harmless. I’m being friendly, that’s all —and making sure he doesn’t do something to wreck my dad’s hard work on the Mustang. Besides, ever since that last, impulsive kissing incident on the road, Ryland has been a perfect gentleman. No accidental brushing up against me as he reaches for a socket wrench, no more invitations to dinner or dates. It’s as if he’s actually accepted that I won’t let anything happen again—just the way I wanted him to.
So why do I feel disappointed every time I cycle home alone?
And why do I bother to apply a little lip balm and mascara, when he’s the only one I’m going to see?
Today, I hurry through my club sandwich at the diner and ask for two slices of pie to go. I head across the street to the auto shop, but when I get there, I find someone’s beaten me to it. There’s another girl sitting up on the counter, her legs swinging as she laughs over something with Ryland.
I head back out to the truck and pick up my phone again, listening to the message on my voicemail.
“Ryland, my man, this vacation of yours is getting a little too long.” He sounds the same as ever, smooth and cool, that ruthless edge to every word. “I need you back in town for a job, and you know I don’t like waiting. Call me.”
I feel chills. He doesn’t know where I am, he couldn’t. I was very careful never to let a word slip about my background or where I grew up. No news of Emerson or Brit, nothing. The only person that could lead right back here to Beachwood Bay is my mom, and she’s miles from anywhere. A different world.
No, I’m safe here. That life is behind me, I swore the night I left Vegas. The dirty work I did for Driskell, the fighting and the girls and the guns. It was rotten to the core, dirty money, and dirtier souls, a pit of vipers.
A place without hope.
Now, I have something to hold onto. A future to build that’s all my own. I look around at the wreckage of the old house and feel a sense of pride at the progress. I’m almost done clearing away the broken-down roof and rotted walls. Next, I’ll strip everything back and fortify the foundation, building roots that will see it through the next dozen storms.
It’s not much compared to a place like that house Tegan is living in, but it’s mine. And soon, it’ll be a home for me, my chance to start fresh. To reclaim my family, and finally build a life I can be proud of.
If Driskell doesn’t find you first…
10.
TEGAN
Two strikes is all I’m allowed. Two amazing, reckless, impulsive kisses. I may have lost my mind twice now, but it won’t happen again. It can’t.
Because if I fall again, I know it’s game over. And dammit, I’m stronger than that.
“You’re going to be mine, princess. I’m going to learn that body by heart.”
Ryland’s words haunt me for the rest of the week. Whenever I find myself in a quiet moment, I see it all over again. That look of certainty in his eyes as he leaned in; the slow flip my stomach spun as his mouth brushed against my ear.
“Next time, I promise, you’re going to be the one kissing me, begging me. Next time, I’m going to show you just what it is you’ve been missing all these years.”
Promises, promises…
I put the guitar down with a groan. I’ve been sitting out on the deck all morning trying to write, but the only songs in my mind are soft and restless, full of unfulfilled desire. When I hear a melody, it’s Ryland’s face that fills my mind; when lyrics come, they’re just the words I wish I could say to him.
Take me. Unravel me.
I’m yours.
I flip through my notebook, hoping for inspiration that doesn’t involve panting over memories of our kiss. Ever since Dex mentioned the song-writing contest, the idea has stuck in the back of my mind, refusing to die away no matter how many times I tell myself it’s a crazy, impossible goal. I’ve barely been writing for a few months; some professionals go years before they ever place a song with an artist, let alone a major band like The Reckless. Just the thought of showing someone my music makes me feel ill, but still somehow, I wish I could do it. Take all the lyrics and melodies rattling around in my head and share them with someone, anyone.
Let them see the very heart of me.
I swallow back a brief pang of regret and get to my feet. It’s nearly lunch time, so I shower off the saltwater from my morning swim and change into a simple summer dress. I pull my hair up in a ponytail, grab my purse and set off on my bicycle towards town. After that first disastrous trip back, I took it to the gas station and pumped up the tires. With some oil on the chain, it’s a hundred times easier to pedal now, and I cruise the road at an easy glide with the breeze on my bare shoulders and my skirt fluttering around my bare legs.
I have a routine now, a simple order to my days. Writing songs, walking the beaches, lunch at the old diner in town. The first time I passed the auto shop on my way home again, I saw Ryland working on some old truck inside. He waved as I rode by, and I nearly drove right into a ditch trying to decide if I was going to wave back.
The next day, I thought it was only friendly to drop by and say hello, and to see how he was getting on working on Dolly. Then, it didn’t seem right to go without bringing something too, so I had the waitress pack me up a cold soda before I stopped in. The look of surprise on Ryland’s face when I offered it to him was worth it.
At this rate, I’ll be bringing a full picnic by the time the week’s out.
I know, I’m playing with fire, but I tell myself it’s harmless. I’m being friendly, that’s all —and making sure he doesn’t do something to wreck my dad’s hard work on the Mustang. Besides, ever since that last, impulsive kissing incident on the road, Ryland has been a perfect gentleman. No accidental brushing up against me as he reaches for a socket wrench, no more invitations to dinner or dates. It’s as if he’s actually accepted that I won’t let anything happen again—just the way I wanted him to.
So why do I feel disappointed every time I cycle home alone?
And why do I bother to apply a little lip balm and mascara, when he’s the only one I’m going to see?
Today, I hurry through my club sandwich at the diner and ask for two slices of pie to go. I head across the street to the auto shop, but when I get there, I find someone’s beaten me to it. There’s another girl sitting up on the counter, her legs swinging as she laughs over something with Ryland.
